


The Quad-Wizard Tournament

by Sploodington



Series: Hogwarts Before The War [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Triwizard Tournament, Wizarding Wars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-24 07:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12008103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sploodington/pseuds/Sploodington
Summary: In 1963, students from three wizarding schools join students at Hogwarts to compete in the illustrious quad-wizard tournament. Far from the friendly rivalry of previous tournaments, this tournament takes place in a fraught political landscape, with the wizarding world deeply divided between supremacists and egalitarians. How will these problems affect students graduating into this world?





	1. Chapter 1

# Sayyid

Standing outside the great red doors of Simtarai’s central hall, Sayyid Maghur listened to the cheering and stomping coming from inside. This was the day the students of Simtarai left for Hogwarts, the day the quad-wizard tournament officially began. The humid air buzzed with anticipation, even the wind roared with the energy of the day as rain blasted against the lattice windows of the hallway. The weather at Simtarai always seemed to reflect the mood of its students; that was one of the first things Sayyid had noticed in his first few days there all those years ago. It was the same weather the night before the older students left for the previous tournament at Beauxbatons five years ago: howling wind and violent rain, with intermittent flashes as bolts of lightning pierced the sullen sky. Back then Sayyid was only in his second year, just another member of the clamouring masses trying to catch a glimpse of that year’s hopefuls as they shaved their heads for good luck. Now, in his seventh year, it was finally his turn to feel the razor’s sting.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the heavy doors. The cheering stopped as soon as he did so and a silence fell across the hall. Students parted before him as he strode forwards, a few reaching out to get one last touch of his hair, as if the magic would rub off onto them. Ahead of him stood Zaida Shamekh, the love of his life. In her hand she held an ornate curved blade, and around her feet lay piles of hair. As head girl it was she who had the honor of shaving the heads of the hopefuls, for which Sayyid was incredibly grateful. If he was letting anyone near him with a deadly blade, he’d prefer it to be his girlfriend. Zaida stood on a raised platform in the centre of the circular hall, half way between the doors Sayyid had come through and the crescent-moon-shaped teacher’s table at the opposite end. In the centre of the platform sat a solitary chair: Dark wood, carved with ornate patterns and with red velvet cushioning the seat and back. Simtarai’s central hall was a magnificent structure; a great cylinder with deep crimson walls, adorned with delicate vines carved from sandstone, snaking in between the vast pillars that held up the domed roof. With the weather outside so gloomy the room was lit by the flickering torches lining the walls, their light reflecting off of the gleaming scalps of the Quad-Wizard hopefuls. The smooth headed students stood beside Zaida, keeping their hands behind their backs and their eyes looking staunchly ahead. Sayyid was the last to be shaved; as head boy and the favourite for champion, Professor Halim thought that it would be more dramatic to end with him.

As Sayyid came close to the podium, Zaida raised one arm towards him expectantly, presenting the back of her hand to him. When he reached her he took her hand in his and bent down, crossing one foot behind the other in a deep, ceremonial bow. He couldn’t resist stealing a glance at her as he bowed - she was smiling in the dry way she did when she was in control and loving it. When he came back up, she reciprocated his bow with a polite curtsey, then led him by the hand to the chair and sat him down.

“Are you sure about this?” She whispered in his ear as she leaned in close, “I mean, you know people at Hogwarts will think you’re...”

“I know who I am.” Sayyid snapped. Like most people, he’d read the papers and he knew what a shaved head had come to mean in the rest of Libya. But at Simtarai, it meant good luck. Students, pureblood or otherwise, have shaved their heads in preparation the Quad-Wizard tournament for centuries. He wasn’t going to let some fringe group take a tradition from him.

Whispers broke out amongst the crowd as Zaida scraped off the first clump of hair. It was impressive how sharp the blade still was; it was the same blade that had been used since the time of the original tournament before its cancellation in 1792. To think it had been so well kept for over a century between then and the tournament’s revival in the twenties that in 1963 it would still be as sharp as ever… Sayyid was proud to be a part of a school which so valued its history. With Sayyid being the last hopeful, once his shaving was complete it would be time to travel to Hogwarts. Of the four schools, Simtarai had the shortest journey: Hogwarts students had travelled to previous tournaments over earth by train, Durmstrang over water by ship and Beauxbatons through the air by carriage. Simtarai students, fittingly, travelled through fire. As such, the journey was a simple matter of choosing a fireplace in the Hall Of Fire, throwing down some floo powder and stating your destination. It was over as fast as you could say “Hogwarts”. This meant there was no long journey to kill their buzz. They’d all go straight from the shaving to Hogwarts, all of them still bristling with excitement, their heads filled with thoughts of glory and valour. Zaida finally scraped the blade one last time along Sayyid’s scalp and then wiped off his now smooth head with a towel. The ritual was complete. Sayyid stood up, pumped his fist in the air and shouted:

“Simtarai!”

The audience responded in kind, stamping rhythmically on the ground and chanting “Say-yid, Sim-ta-rai, Say-yid, Sim-ta-rai”

The storm outside intensified as stomping, shouting students piled out of the great doors. Thunder rolled through the hall and lightning cut the sky; the wind was so strong that the shutters on the windows threatened to come off of their hinges. Something big was coming, Sayyid could feel it.


	2. Chapter 2

#  Penka 

It had been two days since Penka and the other hopefuls had left Durmstrang and several hours since they had set sail aboard the St Andrew. Already, the ship had been caught in a ferocious storm. Pelting rain lashed against the deck so fiercely that it could be heard as loud as the rolling thunder or the crashing waves. Around of a third of their two day journey would be spent underwater; the ship generally skimmed along the Norwegian coast for the first day then submerged just off the coast of Bergen. Penka hoped the storm would clear up before the ship went under, until it did she would be stuck below deck with her classmates. The smell she could deal with, it was no worse than the changing rooms she shared with the rest of the track team back at Durmstrang, but she hated not being on deck. She wanted to feel the wind rush through her hair as they hurtled along at 20 knots, fill her lungs with the crisp air of the Nordic Sea… Instead she was stuck in a damp cabin with a hundred or so sweaty teenagers, her hammock being rocked back and forth by waves breaking against the hull of the ship as she was trying to read. The storm seemed to be getting worse rather than better, so Penka decided she should have a word with the headmaster. With some difficulty given the turbulence, she got out of her hammock and climbed the creaking stairs onto the deck. The wind and rain blasted against her face as she ascended, holding firmly onto the bannister to stop herself being blown over by the thunderous gales.

“Professor!” she yelled up to the Captain’s mast.

“CAPTAIN,” came the booming reply of Professor Varvatsi “aboard my Grandfather’s ship, you will refer to me as Captain!” He always got like this when they were aboard the St Andrew; he was furiously proud of his heritage. It was sweet really, if you knew him. Though most consider his strange nautical traditions to contribute to his intimidating manner.

“Apologies Captain, but are you sure we should be sailing in this weather?”

“Pah!” he scoffed “This is just a sprinkle! Besides, this’ll be good for me to test my sailing!”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Penka asked.

Professor Varvatsi let out a deep, bellowing laugh that rang out through the rushing wind like a foghorn.

“Welcome to the quad-wizard tournament, Nikolov!” he chuckled maniacally as he steered the ship to a harsh right, narrowly avoiding a wave which looked certain to capsize them. If anyone else had been steering the ship Penka would be fearful for her life, but the Professor was as brilliant as he was mad. She had absolute faith that this bristling maniac would steer them safely to Hogwarts.

Penka was about to turn around and go back to her bunk when she spotted something up above: Some way off to the east were two black blurs streaming across the sky. They looked like the streaks of smoke left by muggle aeroplanes, only there was nothing at their head. It was as if the smoke itself was flying.

“What are those things?” she asked. Professor Varvatsi didn’t reply, he’d clearly spotted them too and was watching intently, his brow furrowed with worry.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones heading for England...” he said eventually, almost to himself.

“Are they dangerous?” Penka asked

Again, no reply. He just watched silently as the two creatures flew towards them. Then, suddenly, he shouted: “Get down!” 

Penka saw too late what Professor Varvatsi was looking out for. A bolt of bright light flew towards them like a cannonball at incredible speed, narrowly missing the ship and striking the sea in front of them, sending a pillar of water shooting into the air and causing the ship to keel harshly. The impact knocked Penka back down the stairs below deck. Before she could get up and rush back on deck to see what was going on, the shutter door had slammed shut; the headmaster was readying the ship to submerge! The ship continued to keel as students in the cabin were flung from their bunks and barrels of food and water were thrown to the walls, the cabin erupted in a mad panic of students scrambling to grab onto something solid. Penka grabbed hold of the bannister until eventually the ship had turned completely upside down and they were all stood on the roof.

“What happened up there?” one boy asked Penka, with the rest of the cabin paying close attention to her response. She honestly didn’t know what to say. What were those things? What should she even call them? The bolt of light looked like a spell, but they couldn’t have been human… Perhaps it was some innate magic, like house elves? Penka just said the only thing she knew for sure,

“Professor Varvatsi is still out there” 

Worry rippled through the cabin as soon as she spoke. The St Andrew was built to survive capsizing, and goodness knows if anyone could survive the plunge it was the headmaster, but what if he’d been flung from the helm? Who would right the ship and steer them to safety? As if in answer to their questions, the ship groaned deeply and began keeling back over. It was righting itself! Once the cabin was the right way up and the students dropped down back onto the floor, the entrance to the deck opened again and the wind and rain pelted in. As the students scrambled out onto the deck, Penka ahead of all of them of course, they saw the formidable figure of Ivan Varvatsi clinging to the helm; his vast leather jacket dripping with sea water and a clump of seaweed dangling from his ear. His great bearded face was beaming, he let out a booming laugh that lasted for several seconds before he finally addressed the hoard of confused, damp students.

“You lot needed a shower anyway!”


	3. Chapter 3

# Tophana

“Enter” the perfumed voice floated through the thin door into the rattling corridor. By now Tophana had got used to the low-level of turbulence which seemed to be constant aboard le carrosse de Beauxbâtons, the winged horses pulling the thing across the sky may look pretty but they left the carriage’s handling with a lot to be desired. She tentatively pushed open the door to the headmistress's travel office, revealing what could only be described as an elegant cacophony of glittering jewels, exotic keepsakes and tastefully retro paraphernalia. In the centre of it all, lit from behind by the tinted window, sat Professor Flamel.

“Ah yes, Miss Chameli, please take a seat.” Tophana sat down on the unnecessarily ornate chair opposite the headmistress's desk,

“I wish to speak to you about a rather delicate matter...”

Tophana rolled her eyes. Professor Flamel clearly saw, but refused to respond. What could the delicate matter be this time? Perhaps Tophana was wearing the wrong length of trousers, or the trim on her socks was the wrong shade of blue? 

“...it concerns Miss Apolline Bellamy.” she continued.

“Okay…” Tophana readied herself for whatever homophobic nonsense was coming her way. It was no secret that she and Apolline were dating; thanks to Apolline’s veela genes, there wasn’t a boy (or man) on campus who could keep his eyes off of her, so it was equally hard for them not to notice the buff Indian girl she was making out with.

“It is my understanding that yourself and Miss Bellamy are… Romantically entangled, shall we say?” Well, at least she was upfront about it. Certainly made a nice change from ‘good friends’. 

“Which is fine, of course! Totally fine! This is the sixties, not the sixteen hundreds. Love is free, as the unwashed masses might put it.”

Did Flamel call her into a private meeting just to tell her that her dating Apolline was... fine?

“However, it is also my understanding that you, like her, intend to put your name forward to compete in the tournament.” Ah. Here we go.

“It’s  _ my  _ understanding that anyone who wishes to compete can do so.” Tophana retorted. She knew where this was going.

“That’s absolutely true” Professor Flamel replied calmly “However, after conferring with the other Professors, we are in agreement that you doing so would not be in the best interest of the school.”

“Oh of course, heaven forbid. We might win for once.” Tophana scowled.

“You must understand that this decision is not about you. We know that you are a capable witch, but Miss Bellamy is just less, well…” Professor Flamel rolled her hand as she paused, trying to think of the least offensive way to insult Tophana.

“Less what? Less muggleborn? Less poor? Less brown?”

“Less of a loudmouth!” Flamel barked in an uncharacteristically unrefined tone, momentarily losing her cool. Tophana was taken aback, it was a rare thing for a student to see the headmistress lose her temper. It was almost an honour.

“I’m sorry, Tophana. That was uncouth. But you must understand that Beauxbatons has a reputation to uphold; here we teach a more elegant magical method, and we feel that Apolline better embodies this. We’d like you to reconsider, to give her a better chance to compete.”

Tophana didn’t reply. Instead she simply stared the headmistress down, neither of them breaking eye contact as the office continued to rattle this way and that. After some time Tophana asked, flatly, “Will that be all, Professor?”

Professor Flamel sighed.

“Yes, Tophana. That will be all.”


	4. Chapter 4

# Rodolphus

It had been a few days since the Simtarai students arrived at Hogwarts and Rodolphus had, of course, gravitated to those of highest birth. Ajeeb Nazir was the heir to an illustrious dynasty in Libya; wealthy, powerful, and unfalteringly loyal to the cause. 

“So, what do you do for fun around here?” asked the shaven headed Libyan, looking expectantly at Rodolphus.

“Fun? At Hogwarts?” Rodolphus snorted, to the approval of their peers. The five students were by the stacked up benches against the wall of the great hall, illuminated by the light from the goblet. Rodolphus, Ajeeb and Lucius were reclining on the front row of benches, Crabbe and Goyle were standing.

“I know something we can do…” Lucius chimed in, a sly grin spreading across his face as he nodded his head towards Weasley, who had just got up and was bumbling his way across the hall holding far too much parchment. Ajeeb looked confused, so in explanation Lucius shouted:

“HO, WEASELBY!”

The poor wretch jumped out of his skin, spilling parchment across the floor. Good to see he knew who to fear. As he scrambled to pick it all up, the five Slytherins strode over; Lucius flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, with Rodolphus and Ajeeb a little behind to watch. Lucius was an excellent bully, he had a real aptitude for keeping down those who belong beneath him.

“Looks like you dropped something, Weaselby” Lucius teased as they approached. When they were almost upon him, Weasley abandoned his papers and hastily tried to escape. Goyle managed to grab him by the hood of his robes before he could.

“Now why would you be in such a hurry? Late for Muggle Studies class are we?” Lucius probed, standing in front of the now immobile Weasley. Ajeeb looked on silently, amused and intrigued. Weasley didn’t respond, he just looked at the ground, petrified. Goyle gave him a shake a Lucius asked again, “I asked you a question, Weaselby. Where are you going?”

Weasley mumbled some incoherent nonsense in response.

“What was that?” Lucius taunted, exaggerating holding his hand to his ear.

“Away from you.” he sputtered finally, his whole body shaking. Ajeeb bellowed a laugh, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Are you going to take that from this worm, Lucius?” he almost shouted, taking even Lucius by surprise with the brutality of his tone.

“O… Of course not!” Lucius responded defensively, his eyes darting around looking for professors. None were at the teacher’s table, but McGonagall had caught them out a few times before by roaming the hall in feline form. When he was sure the coast was clear, he waved a hand to Crabbe, who promptly stepped forward, clicking his knuckles. Weasley cringed. This was about when Rodolphus usually lost interest; Lucius understood the finer points of his craft, building suspense, sowing fear, relishing in the power of it all. Crabbe and Goyle were… Simpler beings. As Crabbe lumbered in for what would undoubtedly be a crippling blow to Weasley’s lower abdomen, Rodolphus’s attention drifted downwards to the parchment still strewn about the floor. One sheet in particur caught his eye: A small scrap of parchment with only the words “Arthur Weasley” written on it.

“Lucius” Rodolphus called out “Weaselby wants to enter the tournament”

“What? No. No you must be joking!” he exclaimed, stepping over to see. His eyes widened when he spotted it. He picked up the scrap of parchment and shook his head in disbelief “Now this I have to see…”

With a wave of Lucius’s hand Goyle released Weasley’s hood. Lucius handed him the scrap of parchment and jeered,

“Go on then.”

“Go on and what?” Weasley stammered.

“Do it, put your name in the goblet. You do want to, don’t you?”

Weasley turned around, briefly contemplating an escape, but with the five of them blocking him in he had no choice but to stick around. Sullenly, he marched forward. The five Slytherins advanced behind him. 

As he neared the cup, a group of Gryffindor girls noticed him approach. The nearest, Molly Prewitt, turned and spoke to him.

“Arthur, are you putting your name in the goblet?”

Weasley squirmed and looked at his feet, his scrawny face turning a blotchy red. Lucius answered for him.

“Isn’t it hilarious? We found the note in with his papers. Weaselby here really thinks he’s in with a chance! It’s sad really...”

“I think it’s brave” she challenged, Weasley’s shoulders lifted a little at that. This wouldn’t do, couldn’t have a mudwallower-in-training getting any grand ideas that he was worth something.

“Oh please,” Rodolphus retorted “as if the goblet would ever choose this wretch. He’s just caught up in a doe eyed fantasy that maybe he could live up to his bloodline, rather than disgracing the name of wizard.” 

“So I suppose you’ve all put your names in then?” she raised an eyebrow knowingly as she spoke.

“Of course we have!” Ajeeb exclaimed with certainly, before looking around to see the others squirming awkwardly “Haven’t we?”

No one responded.

“Haven’t we?” he asked again. Rodolphus took him by the arm and pulled him to one side.

“Look” he whispered “we all fully intend to, but as it stands… We haven’t quite got round to it. My fourteenth was only last Tuesday, so I’ve not even had that long, and-”

Ajeeb raised a hand to silence him, shook his head, disappointed, and turned back to Prewitt.

“They’re all going to put their names in. Right now.” he gave Rodolphus a little nudge from behind.

“Right, yes, right now” he spat through clenched teeth as he begrudgingly wrote down his name, along with Lucius, Crabbe and Goyle. Then, together with the equally reluctant Weasley, they all dropped their names into the goblet. It made Rodolphus sick to his stomach to be placed on a level playing field with Weaselby, but at least that was it. His name was in the cup, he was in the running.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a recap from Ronald To The Weasley

# Recap

The oaken torches lining the walls of the great halls dimmed, and the doors to the great hall opened. Out stepped Professor Dumbledore, but not as Ron had known him… This was the Professor Dumbledore of 1963. His beard was a little shorter, his clothes a little different, and his hair a little darker. But what struck Ron most was his eyes, that’s what really gave it away; his eyes looked younger, less aged by worry and grief. Ron foolishly thought for a moment, what could have happened to age him so? But then it hit him, of course: You Know Who.

Following behind the professor were three formidable individuals; to his immediate left, an elderly woman dressed in an emerald blue dress, with inset jewels that made the dress shimmer like starlight, exuding power and grace. After the events of his first year, Ron recognised her from a picture on one of Hermione’s books: This was Perenelle Flamel, Nicholas Flamel’s wife and former (or, in 1963, current) headmistress of Beauxbatons. To Dumbledore’s immediate right was a mountain of a man with a vast black beard hiding a harsh face, wearing heavy leather robes which swept along the floor behind him. He walked with a gigantic oaken staff, almost slamming it on the ground with each step, emitting sparks and leaving scorch marks on the floor of the Great Hall, just like the Durmstrang students of 1994. If this wasn’t the headmaster of Durmstrang, Ron would have eaten his robes. Trailing behind somewhat was a tall, proud wizard wrapped in luxurious silk robes, all shades of purple and red. Whilst his face was not quite as harsh as that of the bearded man, he was scowling. He seemed scorned at being made to walk behind Dumbledore whilst the others walked by his side. This must have been the Libyan headmaster. The Professors strode purposefully up to the stage, Dumbledore stood behind the podium with the other headmasters behind him, throwing his arms to either side to signal that he was to begin. 

“Good day, good day! I hope that you’ve all feasted yourselves on a hearty breakfast to prepare for the excitement to come, for today is a momentous day, the day we announce the champions for the quad-wizard tournament!” This was met with cheers “We will begin with last year’s victors, our friends from Durmstrang. Ivan, if you wouldn’t mind”

The bearded man, Ivan, nodded solemnly at Dumbledore and strode up to the goblet of fire. He slammed his staff on the ground and a scrap of parchment shot out of the goblet, falling into his outstretched hand.

“Penka Nikolov!” he bellowed, with cheers violently erupting from one end of the great hall… A pale, slim girl with dark hair and cunning eyes tore herself away from the crowds of Durmstrang students piling onto her and made her way up to Ivan to shake his hand before returning to her seat. Meanwhile, Ron had noticed a plate of chicken wings was now free of any competition and so decided to help himself to a few handfuls.

“Next, if the lady Perenelle would take the stand” Dumbledore continued, bowing slightly to Professor Flamel. 

“Called it” thought Ron, as he sunk his teeth into the first leg.

Professor Flamel approached the goblet, slowly raising her hand. The goblet spat out another name, which fluttered gracefully into her right hand. With her left, she held her wand to her throat.

“Tophana Chameli” she said gently with a smile, her voice magnified by her wand to fill the entire hall. Amidst the cheers and applause from the Beauxbatons students a small, dark skinned girl with a determined expression made her way to the front. She too shook her headmistress’s hand and returned to her seat.

“Professor Halim” Dumbledore enunciated to the room, with a note of almost dismissive reluctance. With a sideways glance at his lacklustre introducer, Professor Halim stood forwards and extended both hands. The goblet spat out a scrap of parchment with embers still burning. Professor Halim caught it in his right hand, wincing slightly as the embers burnt his skin. Apparently the goblet wasn’t any happier with him than Dumbledore was… His face lifted when he saw the name, however. 

“Sayyid Maghur!” he almost shouted, with a raucous reception from the back of the room. Amidst the throng of celebration, a handsome young man with a shaved head and square jaw emerged, playfully shoving off his friends’ affection. He strode to the front with his chest out and head held high, shook Professor Halim’s hand with a warm smile and returned to his friends.

“And at last” Dumbledore shouted over the cheers continuing from the Libyan students “the time has come to select our own Hogwarts champion”

Taking a few steps forward, he held out his hand as the goblet violently spat out the name. His eyes darkened as he read it, but he forced a smile. 

“Rodolphus Lestrange.” 

There were a few cheers from the Slytherin table, the loudest of which coming from a frizzy haired first year girl, but the applause was relatively modest compared to the others. This didn’t seem to bother Rodolphus, who charged up the aisle to eagerly shake Dumbledore’s hand. As he went to sit down, Ron caught a glimpse of his smile. With his eyes shadowed by his dark, messy hair, he seemed to have a snake’s smile; as if he could strike at any minute. 

“Bad egg, that one” Arthur whispered to Ron “The lot of them are, Lestranges. His Dad’s big into all that Death Eater stuff, wears a mask and hunts down muggles I hear, almost for sport. Barbaric. Utterly barbaric.”

Ron didn’t need to be told, of course. He knew exactly who this boy was. This was the same Rodolphus Lestrange who helped capture and torture Alice and Frank Longbottom, Neville’s parents. He wasn’t going to stick around to watch this madman get a pat on the back. Slamming his hand down on the table, he stormed out of the great hall. A few heads rose, but for the most part the students were too caught up in the excitement of it all to notice.


	6. Chapter 6

# Rodolphus 

Rodolphus had written home as soon as the announcement was made, but the response he’d gotten back was… Disheartening. And somewhat confusing. The letter he now held in his hand read:

_“Dear Rodolphus,_

_I’m overjoyed to hear this, I have total faith that you will be spectacular. Your Mother would have been very proud._

_I would love to come and support you in person, but unfortunately Rabastan is very ill and not much up for travelling. I’ve been awake until midnight most nights, sitting by Fabriana’s old fireplace with him. I hope you’re keeping warm too._

_Your proud Father,_

_Radaston LeStrange”_  

Initially, he was crushed that his Father couldn’t come to watch him win the tournament, but then he remembered: Rabastan is in Libya, how could their Father be looking after him? Not to mention that his great aunt Fabriana didn’t have any fireplaces in Grimmauld Place, only the one she had commissioned in the Slytherin common room after making a donation to the school. That was when it hit him. 

That night Rodolphus crept out of his dorm. Thankfully Crabbe and Goyle sleep like cave trolls, so he hardly had to creep. He could have been wearing steel capped boots and dancing an Irish jig and the others wouldn’t even hear it over the snoring. As he sat by the fireplace, perched on the end of a particularly ornate chaise lounge, he couldn’t help but feel a little doubt. He and his Father had always sent each other secret messages - a lifetime of dull parties with distant relatives made that a necessity. A wry glance over the dinner table as a tiresome Uncle droned on about fiscal policy and dementor regulations, a tug of the earlobe to signal he wanted to leave, a stern glance when he had to make a good impression on someone important… They always understood one another. But what if this time he was wrong? What if his Father really was making him face this alone?

The fire crackled and spat, each time Rodolphus jolted forwards expectantly, but each time nothing came of it. When the clock chimed midnight, he finally gave up. Maybe he read the letter wrong, maybe his Father was just busy that evening. He resolved to try again tomorrow, the fire hissing as he turned and made for his dorm. It wasn’t until he was almost out of the room that the hissing started to sound familiar:

_Seristo ahast eifista_

It was parseltongue! Rodolphus recognised it from his lessons as a boy - the fire was saying “Magic Is Might”. He rushed over to the fire and uttered the traditional response:

_Soflassieflo ahast ereshe_ (Order Is Right)

As soon as he finished speaking, the coals of the fire began to twist into the familiar face of Radaston Lestrange, Rodolphus’s Father. As soon as the coal face had eyes to see with, his smouldering lips cracked into a smile.

“You did it!” he whispered excitedly “you solved it! I knew you would.”

“Yes, but why this level of secrecy? Is Dumbledore reading our letters now?”

“I’m afraid so…” Radaston’s brow furrowed “And worse.”

“Worse?” Rodolphus leaned forwards.

“The Dark Lord, he... suspects that this whole thing may be a ploy. To lure prominent members of the Movement to Hogwarts.”

“Why would that matter? Dumbledore can’t touch you without aurors coming down on him. 

“It’s aurors we fear will be waiting for us.”

“Aurors?! But you’ve not committed any crimes!” Rodolphus exclaimed, slightly louder than he would have liked. He shot a look toward the dorms behind him - it looked like he’d gotten away with it. 

“I know, I know. But don’t forget, we have a mudblood for a minister now. In this day and age you’re not even allowed a difference of opinion…”

“So they’re going to haul you away for thought crimes now?” Radaston laughed at that, the coal making up his eyes crinkling with pride around the corners.

“Yes, it is rather Orwellian. But we’re safe here, don’t worry. And our people in the ministry are working to take back control...”

Rodolphus couldn’t help worrying, still. Even Dumbledore can’t break a fidelius charm, but if the ministry are looking for them now then his family are in real danger. They sat quietly for a moment, neither sure what to say. Eventually Radaston broke the silence,

“I’ll be here every night, at midnight as with tonight, if you ever need to talk. About anything. I’m here.”

“Okay Father” Rodolphus replied, not sure what else to say. He never was very good with sentimentality. Eventually he settled on “Thank you”

“I want you to know” Radaston continued “that I have every confidence you will win this cup”

“Even if it’s just a plot to lure you to Hogwarts?”

“Especially then. Can you image the look on Dumbledore’s face?” they both chuckled at that “But for now, you should get some rest. I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Okay. I’ll speak to you soon.”

“Good night, son.” Radaston’s face began to fade from the fire and Rodolphus got up to return to his dorm. As he was leaving, he heard a final hiss from the fire:

_Ososh Iemeredohe vehei’tsi_ (I’m proud of you)


End file.
